


Makes the World Go Round

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt from the Sherlock BBC kinkmeme:</p><p>Mycroft stops calling, stops coming around, stops smoothing the way for Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't notice of course. Not until things start becoming... difficult.</p><p>Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=91598358#t91598358</p>
            </blockquote>





	Makes the World Go Round

**Author's Note:**

> Written very fast, errors all my own.

 

Sherlock and John burst out of the door of 221B and stopped at the edge of the pavement, searching frantically.

"We’ll _miss_ him," said Sherlock, after a moment or two.

"Strike, maybe?" said John. He scanned the street: still no cabs in sight. "Tube?"

Sherlock was frantically checking the TFL site on his phone and muttering to himself, tube stops, bus numbers… John looked at him and then back at the street, empty other than a coachload of tourists and a couple of random cars.

"Just," Sherlock said. "But we’ll have to run to Euston, there’s a ten minute delay from Baker St and we can’t risk it – " He snapped the phone shut and was in motion. "Go, go, what are you _waiting_ for -"

John didn’t have the breath to sigh, already chasing Sherlock’s coat-tails.

**

When John got back to the flat next day, early winter evening, it was dark, apart from a point of light on the sofa where Sherlock seemed to be reading a sheaf of papers by the light of a torch. John’s torch, he noted.

"You’ll damage your eyesight," he said, switching the light on. Nothing happened. He crossed to the kitchen and tried the switch there, still nothing.

"Power cut?" he said. Sherlock waved a hand. Through long practice at interpreting these gestures John knew the short and polite version of this one was: stop talking, I’m reading. 

He frowned. Hadn’t the lights been on in Mrs Hudson’s? And in the hall? He went down the stairs and checked, looking out the front door for good measure. The lights were on everywhere else. Blown fuse? He looked at Sherlock, then went and got his second torch, awkwardly, by feel, from the back of the kitchen drawer where he kept it. Then he checked the fuse box, which was undamaged. He really wanted some tea. He had a brief internal debate with himself about just walking out of the flat and eating out somewhere, then he switched his laptop on, got his phone and dialed the British Gas helpline.

Forty minutes later, he was furious. He went and stood over Sherlock, folding his arms. Sherlock didn’t look up. He was scribbling equations in the margin of a page and frowning at them. 

"Sherlock," he said. Sherlock’s pencil halted at John’s tone, then resumed again.

"Our electricity has been cut off. Have you perhaps received any of the _four final warning letters_ that were apparently sent out in the last three weeks, and not mentioned them to me?"

He angled his torch so that the light was almost in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock sat up abruptly. "You’re not going to stop talking at me until you know, are you," he said.

"Brilliant deduction," said John.

"Mantelpiece? Now, if you don’t mind" – and Sherlock bent his head over the papers again.

John went to the mantelpiece, where under a stack of other random post he eventually found two – unopened! – letters with ‘FINAL WARNING’ stamped on the cover. As the slightly embarrassed-sounding woman on the phone had said, they appeared to owe British Gas arrears of £2,450. John put his head in his hands for a moment, during which he ran through all his options. They were limited. Then he went to call the company back, apologize profusely, and sort out a payment plan. He wondered if a pawnshop would take Sherlock’s suits.

**

In the next week, their gas was cut off, their broadband stopped working, and after three days of Sherlock borrowing his phone constantly, John forced him to admit that his own phone had stopped functioning. That morning John spent two hours rounding up all the letters for Sherlock that had migrated to different parts of the sitting room and opening them, increasingly grimly, while Sherlock was out doing God knows what. He usually respected Sherlock’s privacy enough to nag him about opening his own post, rather than doing it himself, but this was an emergency. Apparently they hadn’t been paying council tax, either. The most recent letter threatened a court appearance. Or their TV licence: Sherlock was supposed to be paying a hefty fine for that one. There were also letters from BUPA about the cessation of Sherlock’s health insurance – John hadn’t even known he had private health insurance, probably because Sherlock knew he would firmly disapprove – an alarming query from the Inland Revenue about Sherlock’s tax status, and five letters from Coutts containing his bank statements and asking him if he needed a loan. John blinked at the statements. Sherlock was overdrawn by several thousand pounds, and no money had come into his account in the last four weeks. But before that, he had received £3000 on the first of each month for the three months the statements covered.

It was obvious where this was tending, but John went to check with Mrs Hudson anyway. Sherlock had told him, when he moved in, that bills were included in the rent: in retrospect, it seemed ridiculously naïve that he had believed this, but he had assumed the surprisingly low rent was her way of thanking Sherlock. He brought the bills as evidence. Mrs Hudson clucked over them, and made him an extra-strong pot of Earl Grey.

"Mycroft was paying for all this, wasn’t he?" he said.

"I’m afraid so," said Mrs Hudson. "He dropped in after Sherlock came to look at the flat and said that his brother was a bit vague about bills and he would sort it out. Never been any problems before, as far as I know."

"Has he been round at all lately, do you know?"

Mrs Hudson considered. "There were some raised voices about four, five weeks ago," she said. "I remember because Marie was round for coffee and telling me about her hip replacement, which was supposed to be six weeks ago but then it got cancelled, and it was so embarrassing, all that noise from upstairs when I was trying to talk to her about hospital dates. To be honest with you, I wouldn’t have thought it was Mr Holmes, though. Not really the shouting type, is he?"

"Not usually, no," said John. "Thanks for the tea. I’d better have a word with Sherlock, I think."   

"I’m sure you boys can sort it out," said Mrs Hudson, patting him consolingly on the shoulder.

John went back upstairs and tried Mycroft. The number rang and rang, with no answer.

**

Sherlock didn’t show up, but in the early afternoon, John got a call from Molly.

"John?" she said. "It’s Sherlock – I mean, Sherlock’s here, he asked me to call you." She sounded nervous. "I’ll just put him on."

"John," said Sherlock. "I need you here. She won’t let me in."

"Who won’t let you in?" said John, puzzled.

There was a snarl of exasperation from Sherlock and then Molly came on the line again, sounding tearful. "It was a directive," she said. "It came round two days ago. I’ve been specifically told not to let anyone other than police or relatives anywhere near the morgue or the labs. I can’t let him in, John, I really can’t. I asked my boss about it and he said it was a new policy and they’d be checking with security every day."

"It’s OK," said John. "It’s not your fault. No-one could expect you to risk your job."

"I know" she said. "But Sherlock’s really upset. I think you should come over."

"On my way," said John, and hung up.

Sherlock was standing outside Barts when he arrived, hands in his pockets, glaring ferociously into space. Or not quite: when John followed the line of his gaze, he saw that the glare was aimed at the CCTV cameras across the road.

"Are you all right?" he said.

"Lives are at stake, John," said Sherlock. "I can’t work without access to a decent laboratory. He _knows_ that." He looked at the cameras as though he could force them to droop with shame.

"What did you do?" said John. And why didn’t you tell me, he didn’t add. 

"Unimportant."

John reined in his annoyance, forcibly. "Do you think perhaps if you got in touch with him?" 

"This can’t be solved by an apology and a nice cup of tea," said Sherlock. "This is _war_.  If I ever see Mycroft again, I’m going to stab him in the smug, self-satisfied face with his own umbrella."

John’s heart sank. Dramatic threats of violence were, if anything a good sign. But ‘if’ was not.

**

Sherlock wouldn’t say another word on the matter, but John was very aware that they had about two days left before he ran out of cash himself, and maybe a week before Sherlock tried to break into Barts and got arrested. He didn’t know how much influence Mycroft might have over potential clients, but he wasn’t prepared to bet that the absence of cases in the last three weeks had nothing to do with him. He was going to have to brave the Diogenes Club, possibly one of his least favourite places in the world.

John had wondered if the club would let him in, but the flunkeys seemed happy enough to escort him to Mycroft’s office. Mycroft was reading the papers and drinking sherry, looking just as normal. John wanted to punch him.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft said. "I was rather expecting you several days ago."

"Are you going to tell me what’s going on?" said John. "This affects me too, you know."

"Regrettably," said Mycroft. "I assure you I have no ill-will towards you." He glanced back at the article he was reading. "And nothing is ‘going on’, as you put it. Sherlock has simply requested that I cease to assist him, and I took him at his rather forcibly expressed word. Given his advanced age, it seems reasonable to assume that he can stand on his own feet for a while."

John didn’t know what to say. If Sherlock insisted he could do without Mycroft, and vice versa, he didn’t have much ground for manoeuvre.

"What about his cases?" he tried. "You could – help out with those, at least."

"Trying to appeal to my better instincts?" said Mycroft, sounding for once very like Sherlock. "Sherlock’s chosen profession is – trivial, compared to the work he could be doing. How he goes about it is not my affair." He turned a page. "If he needs my help, I am generally to be found here in the evenings."

John thought about ripping the paper out of his hands. "You know Sherlock won’t come to you for help, even if he needs it." 

"Then he will manage without."

"OK," said John. "OK. So – you’re not funding Sherlock any more. Which means that _I_ can’t afford the rent on the flat and all the bills. I’m going to have to get a full-time job. Might have to move somewhere cheaper, too. Outside London, even. Hard to live on an NHS salary in zone 1."

One corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched very slightly. John only saw it because he was watching for it. He waited a moment, but their conversation was apparently over, so he left.

**

Unfortunately, everything he had said to Mycroft was true. He rang everyone he’d ever known in his student days and eventually came up with a six-month opening, replacing someone on maternity leave, at a practice in Dulwich. The commute would be a pain, but manageable: he was more worried about leaving Sherlock to his own devices from 7 till 7 each day. And after six months – but he wouldn’t think about that yet. It was also true that he, or they, couldn’t keep living in Baker St. Even with Mrs Hudson’s discount and John’s prospective salary, it wasn’t enough, and Sherlock – they – were now so deeply in debt that there was no way they would be able to keep their heads above water. John’s pleading with various companies and shameless exploitation of his service record and title meant that they still had amenities, but the monthly bills were astronomical. John had previously assumed Sherlock must have some kind of trust fund. When he summoned the nerve to ask, Sherlock didn’t bite off his head, as he’d expected. He just looked – a bit miserable.

"Mummy left everything to Mycroft," he said. "It was at his discretion."

"Seems a bit unfair," John said, and then realized what Sherlock’s expression might mean, what reasons his mother might have had for considering her younger son untrustworthy.

He dropped the subject. But he had to tell Sherlock about the job, and about their finances.He listened in unnerving silence, no suggestions of bank robbery, or stock market fraud, or predicting the lottery numbers, none of the inventive and perhaps even plausible ways of making money that he could have come up with. He looked at the figures John had worked out without even criticizing his maths, and he flicked through the print-outs of flats for rent in the Dulwich area without comment. Then he stood up, went to his room, and shut the door firmly. John looked after him helplessly. Perhaps he was steeling himself to contact Mycroft, though that didn’t seem like a happy outcome; Sherlock humiliated, at least in his own mind. John put the letter offering him a job and the adverts for flats in an envelope and went out to hand-deliver it to the Diogenes Club: the only thing he could think of.

**

Two weeks passed, most of which Sherlock spent lying on the sofa. If, like John, he couldn’t sleep for worrying about the bills, and about what else Mycroft had been actively or passively helping them with, there was no sign of it. John started his new job. It wasn’t unpleasant, dealing with real people and their minor ailments all day, but it was hard to concentrate when he was worrying about Sherlock, and conscious all the time that he was a good hour or more from Baker Street.

Four days into the job, John got a text in the morning – Sherlock must have come round to using his new ultra-cheap pay-as-you-go phone. "On case with Lestrade. SH" He hadn’t asked John to come. It made his heart hurt, a little, though he should be glad that Sherlock recognized that he couldn’t just drop this job and follow, not now. He waited for updates, but none came.

Then his phone rang, mid-afternoon, Greg calling. "John," he said, and the tone of his voice made John’s knees go weak.

"Sherlock?" he said, already looking round frantically for his keys, his coat.

"He’s alive," said Greg. John’s panic subsided a little, and then started up again: this didn’t sound good. "He’s in UCH, in surgery. Chased after his suspect, who turned out to be armed and had a couple of hefty friends as backup. Didn’t tell us where he was haring off to, stupid sod, so he was only picked up an hour ago." He cleared his throat. "Some knife wounds, and he’s been badly beaten, broken ribs, arm….The doctors won’t tell me anything, you know how they are. We got the boys who did it, though, they’re in custody. I’m headed to talk to them now."

"I’ll get there as soon as I can," said John. He spent the agonizingly slow journey on the train across town berating himself, Sherlock and Mycroft alternately: he couldn’t decide who he was more angry with. By the time he got to the hospital, out of breath with running the last stretch, he was feeling murderous. When he finally got to the right waiting room and registered Mycroft standing by the window, immaculately dressed and looking vaguely bored, it seemed an act of restraint simply to walk across and punch him in the face, hard. Mycroft staggered, gratifyingly, some of his hair coming loose and falling over his face. John noted from the corner of his eye an unfamiliar smartly dressed woman half-rising; Mycroft flicked his fingers in her direction and she sat down again.

"I suspected you might feel this way," he said, gingerly feeling his cheek.

"What, that this is your fault? Yes, it is. I don’t care what Sherlock said or did to you. You knew this would happen when you started this stupid campaign against him. I should never have – " His various feelings choked him.

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but the door was opening and a young doctor was coming in, with clipboard. "Mr Holmes?" she said, and stopped, clearly taking in John’s clenched fists and the red, bruising patch on Mycroft’s cheekbone. "Your – ah – your brother is out of surgery. If you’d like to see him."

Mycroft followed her out and down the corridor, John following. She stopped with her hand on a ward door, looking at John. "You’re a relative?" she asked, slightly doubtfully.

"My brother’s partner," said Mycroft, smoothly. She nodded. John closed his mouth and followed him through the door.

There were eight beds in the ward, most full. Sherlock was at the far end, his bed curtained off, semi-private. The doctor pulled a curtain back and then drew Mycroft aside; John knew he should listen, but all he could see was Sherlock looking pale and diminished, unconscious, tubes connecting him to the monitors by his bed, a drip, one arm in plaster and bandages round his torso, one side of his face puffy and swollen with bruises. John sat by the bed and took his hand gently. It was bruised and scraped: he had fought back. But he hadn’t had a gun; he hadn’t had back-up.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I should have been there." He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips, and on impulse, opened the fingers and kissed its palm. "Don’t do that again," he told him.

When he glanced up, Mycroft was watching him, inscrutable. John set Sherlock’s hand carefully on the bed and stood up, to be more on his level.

"He should recover fully," Mycroft said. "Though it will take some time. No major organs damaged."

John let out a breath. Some of the tension in his chest eased. Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

"I’ve been responsible for Sherlock since I was eight years old," he said, matter-of-fact. "Whatever happens to him, I am accountable for it."

John frowned. He didn’t want to sympathize with Mycroft, he wanted the clarity of righteous anger. "That’s the point," he said. "Having a sibling."

"Perhaps."

"Look," said John. "I would be – responsible for him. I mean, I think I want to be. If he wants. And I know he ought to be more responsible for himself. It’s just – ’ He rubbed the back of his neck. "It’s just that I don’t have the money."

"Money," said Mycroft, as though the word were in a foreign language.

"Yes," said John. He was getting pissed-off again, though he was careful to speak quietly.

"You think it’s about your _resources_ , don’t you, your _connections_. I can talk round Barts if I have to. I don’t need every fucking CCTV camera in London on line to help me stop this kind of thing happening to Sherlock again. But you grew up rich. If you’ve never had to worry about where the money came from, you can’t suddenly change your whole lifestyle if it dries up, just like that. Sherlock doesn’t care about money because he’s never had to. I expect he can learn, but he’ll have to give up being the world’s only consulting detective, and living in central London, and wearing designer suits and all the rest of it. You tell me, is he going to be able to live with that? Are you?" He stopped. He was leaning over the bed, hands clenched.

Mycroft was staring at him. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked at a loss. John saw his throat move as he swallowed.

"I will… restore Sherlock’s allowance," he said. "It was perhaps inappropriate for me to stop it, given that this did counter our mother’s expressed wishes."

"Good," said John. "And we can pay for our own bills, like adults, but backdating them for a year was a bit, well, childish. To speak frankly." This was probably the only time he would have the upper hand where Mycroft was concerned, and despite the circumstances he found that he was enjoying it.

Mycroft coughed. "As you say," he said. "Possibly it was a slightly petty move."

John nodded. "And the taxis?" he said, curious.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Don’t push your luck, Dr Watson."

Sherlock stirred very slightly in the bed, and they both looked at him. "I do have some rather pressing matters to attend to," said Mycroft. "I will return later this evening. If I might leave you to… hold the fort, as it were."

"Yes," said John. Mycroft looked for a moment as though he wanted to say something more, and then turned abruptly and left.

John sat down heavily, and took Sherlock’s hand again. "OK," he said. "I really hope you didn’t hear any of that, or you’ll kill me when you wake up."  

He looked at Sherlock with affection, and reached to brush a strand of hair away from his bruised cheek, gently. "What have I signed up for?" he said. But of course, he already knew the answer.


End file.
